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I am Vivienne Ann Lorelei
I am Vivienne Ann Lorelei. The farthest I can remember about my life dates back all the way to my 4th birthday. Nothing particularly special about it, yet it remains in my mind for some indiscernible reason. There wasn't even a loud party. It was just my family - my parents; a kind mother and family-fulfilling father, and our Maine Coon kitten. I especially, vividly remember the feeling of our kitten kneading against my thigh as he got comfortable. The memory ends abruptly after that, and I'm not sure why. It's not as if there's a particularly bad happenstance for it, like my family died soon after from some traumatic hitman incident, or my kitten passed out right in my lap. The rest of the day I'm sure continued on as usual. Thankfully, after my 7th birthday, I stopped forgetting. This wasn't a random occurrence or makeshift blessing from a deity I have no reason to believe in, it was because I started exposing myself to more information about the world, as well as beginning to put exercise and a proper sleep schedule into my daily life. I had started valuing knowledge, taking a bit of pride in my academic performances and the fact that I had skipped a single grade for pure show-off reasons. I was beginning to hold this popularity that stemmed from knowledge close, and fearing an end I wished not to come, I had begun to value the order of my schedule, feverishly preoccupying myself with keeping it perfect and feeling jabs of extreme anger that burst out in yelling and aggression towards my family and even the friends I had developed. I was soon set into a therapy by worried parents. I remember walking through the door, my father leading our trio past the entrance, my mother leading behind him and holding the door open for me, all the way up to exiting in the same fashion, my father looking far more solemn than he had when we came; as theatrical as a my first lucid dream, as memorable as the most exciting event in the world -- though, that's how all of my memories are registered now. Back to the therapy visit, though. As the marbled floor echoed the clacking of our shoes, feet colliding with the ground in uneven steps, an anxiety began welling inside of me. I remember looking around in an attempted muffled panic, taking distinctive note of the plain walls - a burgundy paint covering the bottom that was halted towards the top, a simple white filling in the rest - and the transition into hallway tile to office and orderly red-green carpet. The entire flair had a sophisticated boringness to it; it looked exactly what I would expect a therapeutic building to look like. I remember my father guiding us to make a left turn in a complicated spiderweb of different offices and desks, the supposed main area of this place holding a few receptionists, majority of them occupied on the phone, talking to others and scheduling future appointments. My gaze lingered on them as I walked, yet only for a moment, as I was brought to attention by my father. He had been conversing with the therapist, a sound that had simply turned into white noise from my time in school. I entered the therapist's office with a nervous and slightly bothered expression evident on my face. I was informed on this therapist's visit and had readjusted my schedule accordingly, so it's not like that was what was so incessantly bothering me - instead, it was the fact that I was here in the first place. I remember believing adamantly that nothing was wrong with me; that everyone around me was overreacting for something so insignificant. My own thoughts angered me further as I went back in forth with my consciousness, agreeing with myself on the idea that everyone around me was just stupid. Everyone around me was so close-minded, or too passive to realize the optimal decisions in life ultimately depended on yourself, not others. "Vivi?" the therapist said, trying to draw my attention once more. To this date, I can't decide if he was attempting to just use a cutesy nickname to make me feel more comfortable around him far too quickly, or annoying me purposely to put all of my focus on him. Either way, it was pretty effective, as I was intent on talking to him right now. My frustration was now far evident on my face, overwhelmingly replacing the anxiety written in my eyes from earlier - I don't remember noticing anything about the background of his office during this point. I couldn't even remember when my parents left the office, left the hallway, and went to the main area to wait until I was done. The man addressing me looked rather old. A somewhat groomed beard of monochrome, sprinkling gray and black in together with smooth hair that didn't match the rest of his tired face. Kind, green eyes that resembled the serenity of forests, like someone made to be in the profession he was in. He was dressed in a casual attire you wouldn't normally see anyone professional wear. A laid back t-shirt, shorts that did nothing to cover his curved leg hair, and sandals you'd see a middle-aged father wearing; someone truly who had intentions of following seasonal fashion. "What?" I coldly reacted to the aforementioned frustrating sobriquet. "My name is Alexander Goldren. I've been told by your family that you've had a violent outburst recently? Over what seems to be a focus on a certain schedule?" His tone was so unbelievably mellow, that in the stupor of anger that I was in, it only pissed me off more. "Yes." "What does that schedule hold?" "My daily life," I said, attempting to be vague. I hadn't intended on saying anything more, but the tension building in my throat forced its way out before I could stop it, "something I had to change because of you." I spat the last word, defiling his desk. I hated everything about it. "I see," he said. His thin-lipped, aggravatingly friendly smile only grew, yet his half-lidded eyes that held both wisdom and understanding alike remained still. "Well, I want you to know you're misplacing the blame. Your parents were the ones who scheduled this appointment. They care for you, and want you to recover from this." "I don't care," I said, crossing my arms while attempting to shut him down from pursuing my emotions, trying my absolute hardest to make myself look as sophisticated as his office did - as the entire place did. In some frame of mind, I believed that keeping my arms crossed, being dismissive, and looking like he was the stupidest person on earth would make me look more mature, or bigger than him. "Well, would you mind answering a few questions for me?" he said, verbally waving aside my attempt at looking and being bigger than him. I hadn't thought much of it then, but now I see that he was clearly experienced in the field he was in. He probably had dealt with numerous behavioral kids before. I wasn't anything new. "Whatever," I said, trying to be just as dismissive as he was. It almost looked as if he caught onto this, because his smiled only grew. This, of course, pissed me off back then. At the moment, I hated him with every fiber of my tiny being. "Great," he hummed. "I will be asking about your feelings, and you will either say 'yes', 'no', or 'sometimes'. Okay?" I nodded my understanding. "First question, are you touchy, or get angered easily?" "No," I responded. I had only gotten upset or angry towards people when they were trying to bother me when I was busy, or whenever they were trying to - as I've said before - change my schedule. "Do you often argue with adults?" "Sometimes." I remember feeling calmer now that I was actually answering. Something about it seemed straight to the point. He didn't hum after every answer, he didn't nod, he didn't mark things down; he was focused on me, and I guess that part of him relaxed me for a little bit. "Do you deliberately annoy others?" "No." "Do you blame others for your mistakes or your behavior?" "No." He paused for a moment after this answer. "Are you preoccupied with details, rules, lists, organization, and schedules to the point that the idea of the main activity is lost?" I remember pausing as well. "Yes..." I didn't entirely want to elaborate, but the comfort coming from him had spurred me further. "...but I can keep track of the main activity." I remember seeing his eyebrows raise. "I see," he said. "Well, why don't you start talking to me about your schedule?" Eleven-years-old. I remember I still had that therapist. I remember overhearing him informing my parents about Early Onset Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder one day before we left the building. I remember feeling okay. The session went well; all he had asked about was how I was handling dealing with others, asked me a few questions about how I felt towards those people, then allowed me to speak about whatever I wanted for a little bit. This part wasn't forced - he offered that if I wanted to, I could spend a while talking about whatever crossed my mind, and if I had nothing, he would end the session. I spent an extra 15 minutes breaking the thin ice by talking about how much I tended to dislike my own work, and then verging into complaining about others. When receiving this news, my father seemed a bit taken aback. I imagined it was the words "early onset". At the time, I didn't think I had that disorder, nor did I think there was anything wrong with me in comparison to others - I felt like I was above them because of their ignorance. Looking back, I think my subconscious had refused to accept that yet, like I wasn't entirely certain on separating myself entirely from society in any way, even though I did shun some of my classmates away from me. I heard him talking about ways to accommodate and avoid sparking any anger inside of me. He also mentioned something about conduct, but I wasn't listening at the time, and my parents didn't address it any more than they were to simple conversation, so I thought nothing of it. If I recall correctly, around a solid year later of consistent therapy with Goldren, I was officially diagnosed with Early Onset Obsessive-Compulsive Personality Disorder. I believe my next strongest memory was one of where I found out that Alexander had died, when I was 13. I was relaxed for the beginning of the day, my parents were glad to see that I was enjoying myself and that my tendencies were beginning to fade away. I was still officially diagnosed with OCPD, but it's not like I minded that much anymore. The one joy I had in my life was my therapist, and he seemed to have been growing along with me. Of course, now I see that it was him milking my enjoyment and me reflecting it as my own, but it worked back then. I was rather dependent on him. I remember hearing from the receptionist that he had passed away during his sleep from cardiac arrhythmia. I didn't want a therapist anymore after that. Instead of breaking down and crying like I expected myself to do once we arrived home, I furiously began recreating my schedule to fit the loss of Alexander. I took on more activities and busied myself to the point of overwork. I had just wanted a distraction, I suppose, from his death. I closed off further, and stuck to what I knew best. One thing that did stick with me from the years with him was refusing to react to provocation with aggression. I remember initially becoming imperfect in my strive to become far better than I had been, and this frustrated me. Closing off how you felt wasn't as simple as people have said; I think I'm lucky to not have had to do anything to lose my ability to feel most emotions. Everything just stopped feeling as impactful as it did. Don't get me wrong, I had still felt anger for the his death, and I can still very clearly imagine myself freaking out all over again, but everything else started being less and less. The more things had begun to grow distant, the more I had recovered. It was by no means instantaneous - it had taken me a a year and three months to get over myself, when I was 14. I stopped enjoying the praise and publicity I received when I performed excellently on something in school, and rather than simply disliking being around others, I rather despised it. The further I progressed in the school years, transitioning from middle to high school, that dislike simply grew into a burning hatred. I remember thinking to myself how other people were something that held me down. How social attachment was a burden. How everything about what I know relating to enjoying myself around others was a fabricated, stupid lie my immaturity had lied up. Of course, 11 more years later and I think myself back then was stupid, but that doesn't matter right now. I had changed my schedule again, once I had completely gotten over Alexander's death. I had removed the extra activities that relied on being around people, moved my exercising regime towards somewhere more reclusive, out of the house and out of the neighborhood, and I had begun an online teaching session of martial arts and extra curricular study of anatomy. I was 17 then - I do apologize for skipping ahead in years so suddenly, I'm only planning on going over the more interesting parts of my life - with my second job. I was fired from the first shortly after turning 17 because of my vocal harassment to an incompetent worker and a boss favorite. I hadn't regretted that. It gave me a bit more time to study the human body, as I was planning on heading into the medical field; jobs were something I hadn't been thinking about often back then, as I was still in the midst of a grieving process. I turned 18 with relatively little exciting moments happening. I kept to my studies, finding more and more interest in the human body and physical illness, and my biology teacher noticed. My grades were excelling, especially in his class, and often I stayed in his room to be alone while I worked on personal projects, if one could consider what I did projects. It was closer related to self-study, as I had used a considerable amount of my money on furthering my knowledge of anatomy as well as the medical field. I remember wishing rather strongly around that time that I would love for nothing more than to explore a body with my own hands. Once I had graduated, I swapped my career choice. Rather than being a biomedical researcher or a doctor specializing in physical health, I changed to wanting to be an anatomical biologist. Sudden, I realize, but I much rather prefer where I am right now because of my swap rather than any scenario I can think up where I became a biomedical researcher instead. In terms of colleges, I was shooting for Harvard, Yale, and Stanford. All of these were the top three in the biological field, and academic field as a whole - I was certain I'd get in with the merit scholarship I had. I hadn't. I was declined in all three applications because of my medical history. An unfortunate, yet minor obstruction in my path. I wasn't upset about being denied, nor did I cry to anyone for this - instead, I rebounded and applied for Johns Hopkins University. I was accepted there, and my most prominent memory there is being disappointed about how my knowledge didn't skyrocket. Many of the things I had learned through online courses and textbooks I had completely memorized. Dropping out would have been more problematic, so I stayed the four years, keeping myself distant through all of this. If there was a scientific way to address the past me and ask how I felt about the college experience, past me would have said it sucked, with rather choice words. Truthfully, now, I believe it could've been far worse. Twenty-two-years-old, now, and I had landed my preferred job as an anatomical biologist, side-lining biomedical research. I enjoyed both. It would be a nice way to continue the story by saying that I had easily cured cancer, brought every single word affecting illness to a silent halt, and saved the world because of my obsessive and perfect personality. No, I was nearly fired. Twice. I believe I was kept on solely because of my prominent ability, but I was very sternly warned to stop yelling at both recruits and veteran surgeons alike. Twenty-three-years-old. I had developed Antisocial Personality Disorder. I was aware enough with myself to realize it. Of course, I didn't bother taking any medication to cause this to recede. I welcomed it. Deciding to fit to a social norm, however, was not the reason I killed. Yes, I had murdered. I was in a perfect, and ideal field and career, yet I had committed murder. To be truthful, I didn't care about the law. I still don't. I didn't care for any more deaths, so it's not like there was a moral reason I had went against. I simply was curious. I hadn't gotten to experiment with surgery yet, despite me yelling at the surgeons. So I killed. With the materials stolen from my personal office, I began stalking someone. A middle-aged woman. She had two children and a divorced husband who was currently remarried with another person. I had no particular reason to stalk this one lady, her schedule just stuck out to me. It was consistent with the days, and perhaps the fact that she never diverted drew my attention to her. Coincidentally, from paying numerous visits to her home, there was the occasional day that, when she got home, the rest of her children would be in another house. I had assumed with a friend, perhaps because the mother was abusive in the household. It isn't my concern. I caught her when she was alone, overpowered her, and killed her. It wasn't a very torturous death, although I have realized that those are often better for certain desired results, but I imagine she still felt some pain. It wasn't an instantaneous method, after all, simply a deep cut to the neck. Might I add this was in her own house, not in the middle of the street. I supposed I had some obligation to figure out her heart. I had a rather inconspicuously large bag around my shoulder. In that bag, were books. On top of those books was another bag. There was a disposable micro scalpel in my pocket, two latex blue gloves, Blumenthal curved bone rongeurs, and a pair of retractors, a Colibri Retractor and a Graefe Retractor to be specific. I was just intent on taking the heart to figure it out in private. Grasping the handle of the scalpel, I had begun cutting the interclavicular ligament, located in the chest, so I could reach the ribs and heart more efficiently. Along with this, I crushed the radiate ligaments and the thin articular capsule before eventually reaching the ribs. Those required little work because of my before care, and using the scalpels, I precisely cut a clean way through the pooling blood to the heart. I cut the Arch of Aorta, the Pulmonary drunk and veins, and the other veins connected to the heart, as well as the Aorta itself. After being careful to completely avoid all of the blood, I put on my gloves. With a short bit of pulling, I had a still heart in my gloved hands. I placed the heart in the top most bag in my largest bag, tying it as tight as possible and neatly keeping it atop the books placed at the bottom. The outline on the bottom of the bag was of books, rather heavy ones, and the dim lighting would obscure the heart. I still had to clean, though, as I didn't want this on the news. People at my job were aware of my mental illness, and one of them was bound to contact the authorities and hand me in as a suspect. I could always rely on luck to lead it in my favor and place blame on the divorced husband, but that would have been reckless. It was reckless in the first place, seeing as how I had neglected to bring the necessary cleaning utensils. I'm just thankful for what the house had. Discardable clothing - that I had noted to buy later on after this night - boots, and all I needed to keep the murder looking like a simple disappearance. I first broke all of the joints in the body, as well as the fingers, toes, and other small bones that would make cutting or packaging difficult. I then cut the limbs at these split joints, draining them of blood over a large bucket filled halfway with bleach water. Once every split limb was drained completely and odorless, I stuffed them one by one into the largest bag I had. After tying the bag as tight as possible, I took to the mop, bleach, rags, and detergent - anything that would completely remove any DNA that had somehow come past my well-fitting protective clothing or that would be left behind from a possibly unfinished clean-up. Once I had completely finished, I neatly put every utensil back where it had been, watering down the bleach a bit in order to keep it to it's previous weight, as well as wringing the rags to the best of my human ability and placing everything back where I remembered I had found it. The bag would then be dragged into my car. There were no witnesses due to the late hours and the obscene amount of time I had spent making sure my efforts were untraceable, and after double checking the safety of the in tact heart, I began driving. First, I stopped at a car wash, simply because I had believed the wheels could be traced back as well - however, this was a hand-me-down car, and I had made no purchases involving auto parts recently, so it was unlikely. I found a school garbage a good 141 miles away and dumped it there, my clothing inside, the gloves soon following after. After that, I had cleaned the wheel of the car and anything else I had touched with the glove-box cleaning materials. Once I got home, I took care of the car inside more properly, and took my bag from the car. I remember marveling at the heart for a bit, taking it from it's bag to experiment. I had as much time as I wanted to devote to the heart, and so I did. I spent the waking hours inside the remainder of my schedule to look at it, probe it, and test my boundaries with the squishy organ. After I finished, I replaced the bag I placed it on in the first place, and placed it in a separate, disposable freezer in my kitchen, packaged under loads of ice and cold drinks in case anyone looked through it for any discernable reason. Feeling energized, yet tired at the same time, I had showered rather conscientiously and slept after eating. When I awoke and began my day as normal, I gazed at the news for a pride-check on the possibility of me either being discovered or if there was any lead on it, sliding the curtains from the window in order to let the light shine delicately onto the couch in front of the TV. Clear as day, the headline had silently grabbed my attention. "Elisa Hinwood, 47, mother of two, has been reported missing." In the subline below it, I read as the words traveled past. "Her children have gone into custody of a foster home - if you have any information on Elisa or her whereabouts, please call XXX-XXX-XXXX." I smiled. That was me. That was my doing. No one was there to praise me, or talk to me, or congratulate me, and that was the best part. Two years had passed since then. I'm 25 now. I have committed four murders split out between then and have not been caught. I write this relaxed. I believe that even with posting this, I will remain under the radar, completely fine. If I'm being completely honest with my audience, I must say that I wholly expected to only be committing a murder to benefit the medical field on a first-hand basis. I must shamelessly admit that the whole tedious process of committing such a weighing sin, and spending dizzying amounts of time on specific actions in order to remain undetected is rather therapeutic. I write this through a reckless mind. An invitation, maybe, to catch a simple woman. A simple woman who, on the outside, would strike a stranger as an irritable doctor, someone who hasn't gotten enough sleep last night because of overwork and tediously needed patients. A token woman who passed as the idol nurse, with short brown hair, blue eyes and perfectly clear peach skin. A woman who wore lab coats because coffee withdraw left them too tired to change out of it. A straightforward woman who doesn't need to worry about their lacking sexual appeal because they have a "natural" figure. That's who I am. I am someone who is still alive. I am someone that might be nearby. I am someone who is the cause of these serial kidnappings. I am someone people do not know. I am Vivienne Ann Lorelei. Category:Dismemberment Category:Disappearances Category:Mental Illness Category:Science